shadows settle on the place that you left
by ohmygodwhy
Summary: so, i love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you. —nico, and jason, and everything else in between; jasico


(aka: how Cliche™ can i make these quotes?)

i was just sitting minding my own business and then my brain was like yo,,,,,,,you remember nico? jasico? u should write some of that rn tbh. so now here i am, reverting back to my Early Jasico Days w/ character studies and v little plot but? the heart wants what it wants and i guess mine wanted to write some Nico Angst w/ a side of Soft Jasico

* * *

 _i. of one i would have died to save._

.

you curl your fingers around the hilt of your sword and lace them together, tight enough that you won't let go, won't lose your grip.

you swing it, blade slicing through the air, and you don't let go, don't lose your grip. it is heavy, dark and dense, a thing of shadows, but you do not lose your grip, because you cannot lose your grip, not if you don't want to stay this way forever, all small and weak and lacking in everything you need.

the ghost tells you: you can be stronger than this, than what you are. you are a child of one of The Big Three, he says, you are more powerful than you can imagine—you can bring her back, of course you can bring her back, your father is the ruler of this realm.

you don't trust the ghost, but you must trust the ghost, because the ghost is the only thing you have right now, and the ghost knows what he's doing, while you do not.

i can teach you, the ghost says, i will teach you.

you lace your fingers together around the hilt of the sword you made out of shadows and things in the dark, and you swing, and you swing again, because you want to get stronger. because you need to get stronger.

good, the ghost says, you're off to a great start.

.

 _ii. and to know you is hard._

annabeth is kind to you. unfairly kind. you wish she wasn't.

you are by no means attracted to her—she's very pretty, yes, all big gray eyes that seem to pick away at you and pretty blonde hair that falls effortlessly—and you wonder if she knows that, somewhere deep down. you really hope she doesn't.

you by no means hate her, either. you can't. she loves percy; she is the light in his world, his beacon, his something to hold onto. you could never take that away from her, and you could never take her away from him. you aren't that selfish.

and so every time you look at her, you feel this nasty mixture of envy and shame that makes your stomach hurt—envious of her, ashamed of yourself for feeling so envious. you really wish you didn't.

every time you look at her, you feel like a liar. you feel dirty. every time she looks at you, you feel like she is trying to dissect you, trying to pick you apart with those big gray eyes of hers. you feel like a monster on display, like a science project she wants to figure out. you really hope she won't.

you hope she doesn't find out—they think you have a crush on her, and her pretty hair and pretty eyes and sharp sharp mind.

she thinks you have a crush on her, and you think you've grown to be a pretty good liar.

.

 _iii. and miles to go before i sleep._

you are locked in a jar. trapped. stuck. suffocating. wasting away. all sorts of synonyms.

then you are locked in a promise: _lead them. we'll meet you there._ it is a near impossible promise to keep, but you won't break it, because you don't break promises—because you know, first hand, the aftermath of a broken promise. you do not take them lightly.

then you are trapped on an island. you are trapped and overpowered and overwhelmed and so so afraid—there is love and hate and cruelty all mixed up into the creature that calls itself cupid, and that creature traps you and overpowers you and overwhelms you, rips you open and pulls you apart and leaves you to face a stranger.

the stranger says: _i've seen a lot of brave things,_ with his blue blue eyes that are just like thalia's, _but that was probably the bravest,_ with his earnest face and his blond blond hair, like he sees you, like he knows you.

you say: _don't tell them. you say: don't tell him, don't tell her, don't tell hazel._

you want to say: _you don't know me, stop looking at me like that, stop talking to me like that._

instead, you breathe and breathe and dig your blunt nails into your opposite arm to stop yourself from shaking to pieces, and you say: _we should get back to the ship._

 _._

 _iv. they said you were the crooked kind, and that you'd never have no worth._

you look at jason grace and you wonder what is it like to lose your identity. your memory, your life. to wipe your mind; to bath in the lethe.

you've done it. it didn't last, but you've done it.

you wonder if it's peaceful, or if it's maddening, if it would be a blessing or a curse. you look at jason grace, and you think about asking him, but you never get around to it. you don't know how you'd ask him anyways, so it doesn't matter. a part of you doesn't want to know.

you don't wanna talk to him at all, you realize when he approaches you After, all placating hands and careful words. and so you say: i don't want to talk about it, leave me alone.

when he tries again, you say: what part of 'i don't wanna talk about it' do you not understand?

you say: do you think just because you happened to be the one there—because you accidentally saw everything—that—that what, you're my friend now? we're not friends. we weren't before and we aren't now.

you say: i know you didn't wanna come get me. you say: hazel told me. you say: you didn't wanna take any risks, or it was a trap or something—i get it, you say, it was a trap, of course it was a trap. but after, you say, but after. you kept looking at me like—like i had betrayed you all, somehow. who would i have betrayed you to, jason? the—the giants who locked me in a jar?

you say: so—so just because you were there? doesn't mean you have the right to look at me like you give a damn when a few days ago? you were looking at me like some criminal.

you say: you don't have the right to—to tell me i can _'be myself'_ when a few days ago you didn't even want me on this damn ship.

you don't yell, because that means attention, but you do hiss, you spit the words at him like venom you can't get out of your system, because you are angry and you are confused and you don't like this—people aren't like this. people don't look at you like this. people like jason don't look at you like this, people like jason don't have the right.

you wonder what it is like to lose your identity, you wonder if jason has ever really gotten it back, and you say: we aren't friends, jason, and i don't wanna talk about it.

.

 _v. once, i saw a bee drown in honey, and i understood_.

there is a boy with the ocean in his eyes and the summer wind in his hair and the world on his shoulders.

you are young, and you are impressionable, and you are painfully naive, and you think he is the greatest thing you've ever seen. he is a hero, you think when he jumps in front of you, holds a hand out and tells you and your sister to _stand back, be careful, i've got this._

and he is a hero, real and true and everything brave in the world when he slings an arm over your thin shoulders and says _she'll be fine, i'll keep her safe, i promise._

and he is a hero—a liar, he lied he said and he promised and he lied and you are young and afraid and suddenly so alone in a world bigger than you'd ever noticed before. you think: this boy is not enough, there's nothing that could ever be enough to cover up bianca's absence, there is nothing that could ever be enough to ever fill the part of you that has been ripped out.

 _i'm sorry,_ he says, _i tried to save her she sacrificed herself she wanted you to have this i'm sorry,_ like he is more concerned about you blaming him than he is about bianca being dead and gone and all his fault, all his fault because he was a hero and he promised and he broke his promise and now everything is ruined and broken and empty.

you want to hate him. you want to hate him so badly it burns, and you do, for a moment. but then you look at his eyes and the skeletons and you save him anyways, even though he let your sister die you save his life, because you are young and he is still some kind of hero.

you turn. you run. and run and run until there are tears in your eyes and your lungs are screaming and you can't catch your breath.

after a long long time of sitting in a hole you fell into, you meet a ghost.

.

 _vi. time for you and time for me / and time for yet a hundred indecisions._

you lace your fingers together behind your back as you walk. they bounce against your body with every step, but it's better than folding your arms across your chest or hovering because you don't know what to do with them.

jason's hands fall loosely at his sides sometimes, but right now they're held in front of him, gesturing and moving as he talks. he talks with his hands, but not as much as you do when you're passionate about something.

it is early fall, and there are brown and red leaves covering the ground of the forest like a colorful blanket. the breeze is cool, but not too cool, and it blows through the strands of jason's hair that have grown out a little longer than the rest of it— _i'm not a roman leader anymore_ , he'd said when you pointed it out to him once, _so goodbye standard buzzcuts. i can let it grow out all i want now._

you want to run your hand through it and fix it for him. instead, you grip your own fingers tighter behind your back, and listen to the story he's recounting, and try very hard not to think about his stupid blond hair or the way his glasses keep falling down his nose.

you want to push them up for him, but you grip tighter and tell him to get the damn things tightened instead.

he blinks at you and then grins that sunshine grin that makes you want to hide and makes you want to smile too, and he says _yeah, i've been meaning to—i've just been so busy lately, you know?_

you do know. he's building shrines, like he supposedly promised to an ocean goddess back when you were all trying to save the world. he keeps his promises, like you do, doesn't take them lightly. you respect him for that, the same way you respect him for the way he leads and the way he fights and the way he drank the poison you offered him.

you say _there's such a thing as overworking, you know. take some time off. sleep in. tighten your damn glasses._

he smiles that sunshine smile, all for you, and says okay, mom.

you unlace your sore sore fingers to elbow him lightly in retaliation. he laughs, and you have to pull your hands back again.

.

 _vii. i have heard the mermaids singing, each to each / i do not think that they will sing to me._

your father tells you that you are weaker than bianca would have been. that she would know what to do, that she would have done it better, that she would have made him proud.

he doesn't say it out loud, but you know he thinks that it should have been you who died. you should have been the one to be crushed and lost in the desert, and she should have been the one to live and breathe and make him proud.

you are all he has left, though, and you learn a lot from him (you learn how to make sure someone else keeps their promises—people always seem to break them, no matter what you do. you learn how to level your glare and you learn how to talk to the spirits and you learn that he and his children are forever separated from both worlds, from people to gods).

you think maybe he learns a bit from you. he learns that yelling doesn't do a whole lot if you want your child to respect you. he learns that you and your sister were completely fine without him there—you tell him: we didn't need you before, it's probably better that you left (because once he told you that your mother wanted him to stay with her, with you), just to see what he'll yell back.

he doesn't, just says i know, in this deliberately absent tone that makes you grind your teeth together.

when you tell him to get off his ass and _fight, do something for once, if you don't do anything you'll always be an outsider you'll be destroyed too they will never accept you if you don't fight for them and for you and for me and for mom, he doesn't blast you to pieces like you thought he would._

he gives you a long, long look with his old, old eyes, and he says: you think you know what it is to be an outsider, boy? to be hated?

you look at him and you say: yes. i'm _your_ son, you know. the apple doesn't fall far, and all that.

he says: do you really think it will change anything, if we fight for them?

(you do not miss the 'we', the fact that he knows you won't be fighting for the gods, but for their children. will it change anything, if you fight for _them?_ he is asking.)

you say: i don't know. but i hope. also, i'd rather not be killed or anything, and i don't think you want to die yet, either.

he says: do you have _any_ respect for your elders? and then he shakes his head and says: it's been a long time since i've ridden my chariot.

.

 _viii. who is the third who walks always beside you?_

you see her everywhere. in crowds and in shadows and in dreams.

sometimes, you think you hear her voice, catch her eye, see a glimpse of her smile, but she is always gone when you turn around.

she is dead, and she is gone, and the ghost was a liar so she's never coming back. but still she is everywhere, and you don't know if you want her to go away or cling to her and beg her not to.

.

 _ix. i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)_

jason kisses you on the floor of his cabin in the middle of the night in the middle of the summer after the war.

you are all bony and awkward and very obviously inexperienced, and he is very obviously not, and he puts a hand on your cheek to guide you through it and runs his other hand through the hair on the back of your head. his fingers get tangled in one of the knots because you haven't brushed your hair in a while; he pulls back and gives an embarrassed little laugh.

you stare at him, wide eyed and flushed and vaguely overwhelmed, and say what the hell was that?

he scratches the back of his neck the way he does when he's nervous, and says _i mean—well—it was a kiss?_

you blink and say _why?_

he blinks and says _because i wanted to? because i've wanted to for a really long time and the mood seemed kinda right and also it's really late and i have zero impulse control right now, and. well you just looked really nice when you smile and i kinda just went for it?_

he looks at you where you are sitting, frozen and processing, and quickly adds _but we don't have to—i mean if you don't—if you weren't feeling it we can just pretend it never happened? because i really don't wanna make you uncomfortable and i'm super sorry if i did i shoulda thought this through i'm—_

you cut him off, clapping a hand over his mouth to get him to shut up before he apologizes again.

you swallow, and your hands are shaky, and you look him in the eye ands ask _are you being serious right now? this isn't a joke?_

he nods—and then shakes his head quickly at the second question— _of course it's not a joke,_ you know he tries to say from under your hand, even if it comes out all muffled.

 _you._ you pause. _really? i don't—i don't understand—this is real? this is really happening? you're serious?_

and you feel a little pathetic, sitting on the floor and asking this beautiful boy with the sky in his eyes if he could somehow actually want to kiss you of all people—you, all too skinny and too quiet and too different.

you just—you just don't understand. it doesn't make sense. it took a long time to convince yourself he actually wanted to be your friend. this is a whole other level. the pieces don't fit together.

he peels your hand off his mouth slowly, like if he moves too fast you'll run away.

 _nico,_ he says, all soft and warm, _i'm being completely serious right now. i'd never joke about something like this, you gotta know that._

he looks so sincere you have to bite your lip and look away.

 _i don't understand_ , you say again, _i don't get it. you're. **you**. and i'm—not. i'm just this. i don't get it._

you don't have to look up to see the furrow of his eyebrows or the little smile on his lips.

 _i don't know if you've noticed,_ he says, _but i think you're pretty damn cool. you're smart, and you're funny when you wanna be—and sometimes when you aren't even trying. and you're super nice even though you act like you aren't, and you care lot even though you act like you don't, and you notice things about people that everyone else overlooks and you remember them_.

you open your mouth to say something you haven't thought of yet, but he cuts you off.

 _and you're really—well, you're really cute, even if you don't think so, and you have really nice hair i always wanna touch and really nice eyes and a really nice smile, and they light up all bright when you talk about hazel or reyna or get excited about something—and you move your arms a lot and get lost in whatever you're saying and it's so damn beautiful i—_

he cuts himself of this time, cheeks flushing a faint red, and swallows hard.

 _you're just_. he looks at you the way people look at something precious. you've never been looked at like that before. _you're just—you're amazing, nico._

you feel like you might cry a little if he keeps looking at you like that, the way he is right now.

you try to swallow it down, but then you're blinking fast to stop the heat pooling in your eyes. no one has ever talked to you like this before, and he's so so good and warm and earnest and you have no idea what to do with it all. things don't work like this.

you bring a hand up to wipe at your eyes and you look at the ground and say _you're stupid, jason._

you practically hear his face fall, but then you say _i've wanted to kiss you for forever, you moron. i just didn't think you—wanted that too. i never—well i._ you swallow. _can we maybe do it again?_

he smiles that goddamn sunshine smile, and he says, sure, like he suddenly has no care in the world.

his big hands are on your shoulder and on the side of your head, and, hesitantly, you lace your fingers together around his neck.


End file.
